Moments You Cannot Reprise
by ImpossibleElement
Summary: Sherlock knew, with as much certainty as he could muster, that this was the last time he was ever going to see John Watson.


**Moments You Cannot Reprise**

What does the future hold? It's true not one person can really predict all the scenarios and directions in which a situation can go; possibilities and alternations of the same occasion could branch out infinitely. Yet, still he tried. No matter how unrealistic the notion of knowing what was going to happen was. He had to try. Every other option led to disaster.

Sherlock and John stood before the other on the tarmac, a hundred different questions and thoughts running through both their heads. Sherlock had this feeling as if he were watching death in slow motion, someone dying and him unable to do anything about it. He had yet to identify whether that someone was John or him.

He knew, with as much certainty as he could muster, that this was the last time he was ever going to see John Watson, and if felt as if he had been left to burn out on his own. Once he got into that plane, he will never be able to come back. And all of those moments they shared, all those missed opportunities will never come again.

He wanted to commit everything to memory, afraid that he was going to miss his last chance if he got distracted. He started with John's stand: the posture of a soldier that never really come back from the war, straight back and closed fists. He then roamed his gaze, darting through every part of his figure and then jumping to his face, the most expressive face he had ever encountered. The blonde's gaze was evading his, for what reason exactly, the detective could not say. He kept looking some other way, and every time their eyes met, he would quickly move them. But Sherlock couldn't tear his sight away, not even for one second. He was about to go, and he needed to be sure he wouldn't forget one tiny detail of the man before him.

All those times they were larger than life, fighting against whatever the world threw at them, no matter how unlikely the odds were. All those memories felt like watercolour ghosts to him now. Vanished from his life like seconds that you can never recover. It stabbed him to think that the days he spent with the doctor, even the bad ones, were soon going to be part of his past forever. No matter how hard he tried, he could not keep the ugly thoughts away. The ones that whispered to him how empty his life was sure to become without the one light that made everything else not hurt as badly.

John didn't know, of course, and judging by the situation and his impending demise, it was best that he was out of the loop for once. His friend had already had so much pain and heartbreak in his life, some of it even caused by him, so he couldn't let himself pile on all his unrequited feelings and emotions over his shoulders. John was completely oblivious of both, the fact that he was likely to physically die in less than six moths, and also that he had already virtually died every day since he found out the truth about his own regard for him.

They were talking, and Sherlock knew the words being said where not that significant, the cosmic proportions of what was happening was way larger that either of them could comprehend, even if the detective knew exactly what he was losing. The moment arrived, and the younger man extended his hand for the other to take,. Since nothing will suffice, a handshake was the only thing that made sense, everything else felt unnecessary and superfluous.

As their hands were joined, Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed himself to recall the day they met, all those years ago when life was still full of colour. When the only thing that mattered was each other. Running around like madmen on a mission and laughing at every little thing. That night they had both formed a connexion, even if it was quite deeper at one end than the other. And the detective felt he will be forever bound by it, however long or short his story will still be, he would never sever that thread even if he was able to. He had surrendered himself to that drowning emotion ages ago, it was too late now to try and swim his way out of it.

They parted, and took a moment to regard each other one last time. All those things unsaid didn't matter anymore. Will never really matter again. Yet, they had marked them more than either of them will care to admit.

John will go back to his house, to Mary, to his life, and go on living. He found comfort in the fanciful fact that the doctor will not forget him, that even in those moments that will come suddenly and further and further between each time, John will remember him, and perhaps will even come to miss him. That notion was all he could hold onto.

He may not be able to know what their future will hold, but he knew about the past. Their story imprinted in his soul and forever regarded as the best thing he has had in his lifetime. He admitted the ending was not what he had hoped for, so much had gone wrong between them, but he will always regard it not as a defeat but as a victory. As the greatest triumph ever shared. Maybe he will turn around, step inside that plane and never get to be that person again, never feel that happiness again, but for a tiny moment he had owned it. Had held it between his hands, and for him, it was more than enough.

As we all know, life has a very peculiar way of unfolding and unraveling things, and to the detective this should not have come as a surprise, because sooner than he thought it, the plane was turning around and was taking him back to London, to a life on which he had already given up. The details of the landscape growing sharp again like the rewinding of a clock. All those possibilities he thought lost were real again, and his heart raced at wondering what their future would bring this time around.

Author's note:

I'll keep the souvenir inside, it's just better in my mind.

Inspired by How's It Going To Be by Gerard Way.

If you enjoyed it, leave a comment and tell me what you think.


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